


some you do for love

by Nabielka



Category: Captive Prince - C. S. Pacat
Genre: Friends With Benefits, M/M, Pining
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-12-01
Updated: 2016-12-01
Packaged: 2018-09-03 15:23:22
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,252
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8718967
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Nabielka/pseuds/Nabielka
Summary: Not everybody pays the going rate.





	

**Author's Note:**

  * For [MildredMost](https://archiveofourown.org/users/MildredMost/gifts).



“Really, it’s one thing to have low prices, but to not be paid at all? I might’ve understood if it were the Prince but really, Guillot!”

“Would you let him for free then?” he murmured, smoothing back Marceau’s hair. It had grown out since they’d last met, but the colour was still the same, like the sand on the beaches of his childhood. He let his fingers run down his neck to the laces at the bottom. 

Marceau huffed out a laugh. “If anything, he ought to pay more! You know he makes no distinction between his private money and the country’s. At least twelve sols. No, a hundred!”

It was swift work; Guillot was nearing the end by now. He pushed the fabric to one side, letting his hand splay over the revealed skin. “Expensive, are you?” 

He brushed his thumb against the nipple in a light rub, enjoying the little noise Marceau made in return.

“Can’t you see why?”

Guillot looked at him, applied himself back to the laces, and let the grin fill his face. “See why you only take three sols?” He hooked his fingers around the tie, and tugged. “Maybe it’s because you can’t even tie your clothes properly. Were you in a hurry? Or must I demonstrate?” He made as if to do so, holding up both ends. “You see, first you – ”

Marceau said, “I thought you were supposed to be undressing me.” He had gone pink, but the flush did not go down far. 

“Oh, I am,” Guillot said, and tugged at the laces again, to pull him a little closer. He came willingly. He was even prettier up close. 

But that way lay foolishness. To distract himself, he said, “Anyhow, if he’s paying so much, why’s it in coppers? He’s not going to be carrying them around!”

“Don’t be ridiculous,” said Marceau. “What would I do with it if he paid me in gold? Nothing here costs that much.” Then, as Guillot reached the end of the fabric and made to unclothe him, he exclaimed, “You’ve not done the cuffs!”

He was right. Guillot let the fabric drop, and reached out for Marceau’s right arm, taking his hand in his and pulling it up. His skin was very warm. 

“What if he were in disguise? You might undercharge. Think how terrible that would be.” He turned Marceau’s arm over to undo the cuffs, popping open one button and then the other. “At least you’d have the bragging rights to console yourself.” He traced his fingers over that lovely skin. “Not that anybody would believe you. He didn’t seem the type.” Having said so, he bowed his head to press a kiss to the wrist, before dropping the hand again.

Marceau’s flush, which he had thought subsided, seemed on a second look to have maintained its former shade. But the light was poor, and Guillot couldn’t be sure.

He transferred his attentions to the other arm. 

Marceau cleared his throat. “There were some soldiers here, who mistook me for the Prince.” 

It diverted Guillot’s attention. He stopped, his thumb resting against the place where the button had touched. Beneath it, the pulse was quickening. The soldiers must have been rough, or in any case, the commotion would have been unusual enough, to cause this, even as a memory.

He was still talking, the tone shifting. “And then they started talking about some lord’s pet who’d been there that night, as though he could’ve been the Prince! Even though he wasn’t even good-looking, and everyone’s heard about his looks!”

Guillot swallowed. Marceau was certainly appealing enough to cause confusion. But it wouldn’t do to say that. Instead, he said, “Shouldn’t that earn him a discount? To ninety-five sols, perhaps?”

Marceau looked appalled. “He gets so much because of his position that he deserves no further concessions! Besides, you said he cheated you.”

The words warmed him. He bent his head back over the cuff, hoping the fall of his hair would hide the smile he could not keep back, inexcusably soft, or the warmth in his cheeks. 

He scrambled for a reply. Ninety-five. A hundred. It stirred a memory, a saying. He said, not bothering now to hide the warmth in his voice, to be taken now for mockery rather than affection, “Planning to get them by seeming pitiable? I doubt his charity is quite at the proverbial level.”

It earned him a laugh; it allowed him to hold the hand for a moment longer without attracting notice. Dropping it eventually, he added, “He wasn’t even generous enough to make his Captain pay me what he’d promised. No care for the concerns of normal people at all!” 

“Bitter that you didn’t get to fuck him?” An arch tone, as he took off the shirt. 

_I’d rather have you._

The thought came unbidden, and was dismissed. He had him now. It was absurd to feel nostalgic in advance, to think of all those nights when he would lie in an uncomfortable bed alone and think of Marceau, think of him with that gambler he’d seen earlier, or with scores of interchangeable other men, who would peel his clothing off and take him to bed. 

It was absurd to wish for something more. He had this much, and he had the conversation, which the others could not purchase, which the Prince himself would not merit, and which he found himself missing most of all. 

“You sound more interested. Or is it that you’d like me to pretend?” He dropped his mouth to Marceau’s ear, dropping his voice also, “Your Highness?”

Marceau started. 

“No,” he said hesitantly, a line appearing across his forehead. “No, I – if anything shouldn’t I say that? If we’re pretending.” He smiled. 

It might have fooled his clients, it might have fooled the Prince. Guillot knew him.

He reached out to tuck a wisp of hair behind Marceau’s ear, running his finger down the rim, and took a deep breath. 

“I’ve missed you,” he said, and found that could not say more. 

His hand was still against Marceau’s skin. He felt him swallow.

After a moment, Marceau said, “It’s only natural. There’s a reason the clients don’t get it for free.” His voice was very light.

For his part, it weighed heavy on Guillot. It felt like too much. He said, “It’s not just that.” 

“Well, I am the best,” said Marceau. His eyes were wide and sharp, and he was looking straight at Guillot, who was unable to look anywhere else. 

There was a pause for a moment. There was movement on the corner of Marceau’s mouth. He took a deep breath, and when he spoke there was something changed about his voice. “Besides, you should not pay.” 

“I’m not,” Guillot heard himself say, and cursed himself for a fool. But it was too much: his courage failed him. He found he could not bear to think of Marceau straining a polite smile, and of having his own foolishness bared open: for it was indeed foolish to feel so fond of him. 

But Marceau was smiling. 

“No,” he said. “But you’re also not taking me to bed.” He reached out his arm, palm up. 

Guillot took it with his, and allowed himself a moment of foolishness, to stand there touching him. Then he tugged him to bed, pressing Marceau down against the covers and kissing his mouth, soft and wonderful and made for laughing, and let himself imagine that he could have this forever.

**Author's Note:**

> Title from The Mountain Goats.


End file.
